


Traditions

by hurriedScrawling



Series: Horrorbent [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Horror, Blood, F/M, kind of, what do i even tag this as
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurriedScrawling/pseuds/hurriedScrawling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2 of the Horrorbent Series, political intrigue, the call of the wild hunt, badass olivebloods who don't take no shit and got new Titles and clowns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the sequel to "A Rocky Beginning" and the second part of the Horrorbent Series. Yeah, sort of let this sit on the back burner for a bit (or a year) but with the renewal of Homestuck updates bringing about the final stretch towards the end I figured I'd give it another try at writing it out. As always I will update the tags accordingly as Chapters are released.
> 
> Thanks to [Dave](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot) for editing.

The howling of Huntsman signaled an end to all things within the forest. The common trend of monsters within the glowing flora of the bioluminescent wood was to stalk the unwary, and the weak were popular whispers among the secret spreaders in the villages that surrounded the Sea of Trees, the mystical wood with no end.

 

Shimmering under the light of the trees and grass was a great beast. The twelve legs it strode on heralded naught but death to those that fell beneath its indomitable steps. The massive horns on its head seemed to flow like water around the branches it walked through, disturbing nothing, and the hundred rows of candles along the behemoth’s wax covered back flicked at the Hunter’s coming.

 

None would escape her claws, not beast, not man, not troll and certainly not a long-forgotten god that dared to tread through her woods.

 

The lumbering beast came to a wavering stop mid-stride, the overwhelming bloodlust before it giving it pause. Multi-colored blood painted the woman’s dark flesh, painted into archaic runes of a once forgotten religion bespoke of only in hushed whispers by the most fervent of believers or the most foolish of the doomed. The feral grin that spread across her face beneath her dark mane was nothing short of wicked, eager to spill the old god’s blood.

 

The Huntress spread her claws on the branch she stood on, the faceless horned forgotten thing before her moved as if to turn to avoid her and she let loose a roar that echoed around the creature. Five, ten, fifteen other huntsmen answered their leader’s call, each adorned with bones, skulls, and runes of their own; pulsating with different colors that seemed to release an unnatural smoke from their skin.

 

From the depths of the skulls covering their heads, each of the huntsman roared, their jaws opening in an uncanny mimicry of their wearers. The faceless creature trembled; the all encompassing hopelessness of a creature that knew it was about to die causing the candles on its back to flicker for a moment before they raged. At one time it had shared its divinity with others like it, but that had been long ago, in an age before time itself had a name.

 

A noise unlike any heard in this existence ripped from the thing’s core, a cry of frustration, of indignation, of rage that had built and built as its followers deserted it and it was lost to this broken plane of being where naught but mistakes and echoes were left.

 

And the hunters responded to this incomprehensible noise with a unified animalistic roar of glee and malice as with weapons made of the bones of countless other dead forgotten gods, they pounced on their quarry.

 

It was large, and though the hunters were small, they were numerous and did not want for experience; their zeal in their chosen craft was second to none. With roars of prayer and promises of offerings to their wellspring of strength, the group bloodied their claws, their axes, and their spears, tearing into the creature with reckless abandon. There were no words shared between the hunters, no orders shouted from the Huntress to her followers, no cries of endearment--only savage cries of ancient bloodlust that would not be denied.

 

==> Be the Huntress

 

You are the Huntress, Seventh mistress of the Hunt, Disciple of ancient words, and all in the Sea of Trees who dared to call themselves Gods would fall to your Pack. Silvery blood coated your body and your claws as you stood on the body of the dying god, a wide grin spread across your face as you looked down at it, your bare feet crunching the candles beneath your strides, extinguishing each flame as you walked. The thrill of the Hunt and the echoes of its call were beginning to fade; it was a good night. Only two of your brethren had been lost beneath the creature’s horns, but you were assured they’d joined the chorus of voices in the Sea of Trees that urged on the Hunt itself. You would all hear them again soon.

 

“Arrrrgrrrrim,” You called, turning to the large troll male with an axe as tall as you were made from the bones of some other long forgotten god, “Cleave the head frrrom the body,” You said, pointing a clawed finger to the mound of horns at the top of the creature’s form.

 

The wolf like skull mask the troll wears bobbed up and down, all he can manage you knew, until his own bloodlust released him from the Call.

 

You watched the walking wall of muscle and scars go about his work before you stepped down from the creature, using your claws to slow your descent some twelve feet from its back to the forest floor. You looked up above you at the creature you and your kin had felled, running your claws over its flesh. You did not even need to be enraptured in bloodlust to know the Hunt was pleased with your kill. Its body would feed the forest and keep the eyes of sky out as the trees grew stronger and wider.

 

The growling of a small voice from above you caught your attention and you looked up, the smallest from your pack, your whole world and more sat perched at the edge of the creature and you grinned up at your child.

 

“Nepeta,” You crooned, holding your arms open for the cub to slide down to you. She wore the markings of the hunt well, and the skull of her first kill--the double mouthed lusus that once raised her--suits her. “You did well child,” you cannot keep the pride from your voice; you wouldn’t be able to if you wanted to. She was only seven summers and already she was out with the pack, you expected nothing less really from one of your line.

 

Nepeta growled at you as she sat in your arms, she was still with the Hunt. It would take her a while longer yet to be free from it, you knew, the first time was always the most intense, the chorus of voices held onto new listeners longer. But she was coherent enough to recognize your scent beneath the quicksilver-like blood coating your body and that meant she’d be free from the call soon.

 

You set her down on the floor and she crawled around, sniffing at the dead god, the tail mutation swishing back and forth behind her as she went. You grinned as you watched your child, a mixture of pride and excitement on your face. Some day she would surpass you when you were too old to lead Hunts any longer, and you would go off to find something that would kill you in the forest and join those that had come before you to call others to the Hunt… but that would not be for quite some time, you knew.

 

Nepeta had many more years of hunting with you before that would become too relevant a thought, spirits willing.

 

You turned to the rest of your pack, “Gather what trophies you wish and retrieve the weapons and masks of our fallen,” you called to them. Their bodies would feed the forest as well, only their masks and their weapons would be returned to the tribe.

 

Argrim returned as Nepeta was winding down from the Call, moving to crawl against you before she yawned beneath her mask and climbed up your back under your hair to perch herself on your shoulder, clinging to your back, making you purr as you turned to your Second, the creatures head trailing behind him like it was nothing.

 

“Can you carrrry it back?” You asked, “If you’re unsurrrrre I can ask others to help.” You fought the smirk as he growled and continued to drag it behind him. He was easy to toy with, anything phrased like a challenge and he would barrel into it on his own.

 

“Huntress,” another voice called your attention to a human woman with dark skin, her face hidden by an equine mask, the bones strapped to her knuckles were covered in silvery blood, a hatchet in one hand, and a sabertooth like skull mask in the other. “Sarabi had a cub,” she said, her own mind clear from the Hunt’s call.

                                          

You tilted your head, frowning slightly, “Sarabi was lost?” you asked, surprised by this news, “I thought we’d only lost two of our males.”

 

The woman shook her head, “No, Sarabi was caught by one of the creature’s horns and gutted, she lays dead on the forest floor.” The human lifted the hatchet, “She did spill the creature’s blood, and it was a good death.”

 

You nodded, “I will give them to her cub,” you said, holding your hands out to take the mask and the hatchet both, “What was her cub’s name? Do you know?”

 

“Bolade, I think.” The woman said, nodding at Argrim walking further along, “Argrim’s cub is friends with her.”

 

You grimace, Argrim’s cub was weak and cowardly and you’d often wondered how his father had not either eaten him himself or left him in the forest to either get stronger or to die to feed the Sea of Trees. It didn’t bode well for Bolade to be associating with someone like that, only the strong would live in Forest and only the strong would live for the Hunt or die following its call.

 

“Rrrrright,” you grunted, “Gather the others, Arrrrrgrrrrrim will follow us back with the head.”

 

She nodded and moved to do as you instructed while you shifted Nepeta on your back and scaled one of the closest trees, “You did well today, child of mine,” you purred as you moved, knowing Nepeta was still awake enough to cling to your back but not quite enough to be able to really respond to you.

 

“The Chorus will resound to the song of your fury as you grow, I can feel it,” you’ve calmed enough that you’re able to speak without growling, “You will be a wonderful Huntress,” your pride knew no bounds for your cub right then, she was the glow of your world and anything that sought to take her from you would feel your teeth at their neck.

 

Your pack returned to camp with you. Within the Sea of Trees rested the Grotto of Souls, a spiritual place for the followers of the Hunt where they could break fast and commune with the Call of the Hunt before going out to find prey. It was in the vast glowing trees above this grotto, housed in the bones of old kills hanging from the thick branches, where your people made camp, on the edge of the Sea of Trees before the first of the Waystones surrounding it.

 

And it was from here you could see the sickening sight of the Dark Carnival.

 

Your hackles rose as you scaled the largest of the trees back to the main encampment, in the hollowed out skull of long dead frog god that the first Huntress killed. The lights and garish colors of the Clown’s encampment past the first Waystone irritated you more than you could ever put to words and the fact that you could do nothing about their countless transgressions against your people and you personally--because of the binding truce that kept you from leading your people to slaughter them--only solidified your platonic hatred.

 

You bit your lip as you reached the base of the skull of the frog, carrying your cub to your own lodging in its left eye. The largest of the spaces was reserved for the leader while the rest of the skull was used to host ceremonies; other bones of long dead gods housed the rest of your pack and the followers who participated in other Hunts. It had been some years since the entirety of the tribe had gone on a Hunt together, since before you or the previous Huntress had lead the tribe.

 

You removed the skull mask from Nepeta’s head and laid her in the hammock covered in white fur that hung beside your own, letting the girl curl up into a ball and mewl softly before she went to sleep, exhausted after her first hunt. You smiled and brushed a stray hair from her face, resolving to bathe her thoroughly once she woke. You were hardly innocent of sleeping with blood and grime covering you but one as young as her should be cleaned after a kill.

 

You moved over towards your bathing quarters, a simple piping of warped wood from a spring that ran up the tree itself, knocking on the doorframe as you entered and causing the bioluminescent plants to glow brighter at the noise. You stripped yourself of the little clothing you had on and stepped under the running water, letting it wash the dirt and blood off of you. You would use the blood from the head Argrim had dragged back to paint upon the bones, the beautiful shining silver color would add to the splendor of the mural of the Hunt wonderfully.

 

It took longer to wash off the sigils of blood you’d painted on yourself in your revelries in the Grotto, and you knew it isn’t the water that removed them. They faded away in colors like steam as you let the cold water wash over your body, purring a little as you let some of the grime wash out of your hair.

 

You stepped out from the water and walked naked through your quarters as you drip water from your body, letting it pool beneath your feet before you shake your hair out, and step out of your quarters to descend the winding steps down to the room below. You dressed yourself in a feathered cloak and a skirt made of the hide of a great moth-bear, dyed in patterns of olive and black to match your hemotype. You took Sarabi’s mask and hatchet, having left the blood stains on them and you moved out of your home along the thick branch leading towards several houses carved into the trees further down in the village.

 

Sarabi’s home was adorned with the skins of great cats like many olives in your tribe, patterns of white, brown and black covered them and it was likely Sarabi had killed many of them herself. One of the skins hung over the opening to the home as a flap and you pushed it aside, “Bolade?” you called, looking around for the cub.

 

You spotted the girl, her coarse black hair tied up into patterns around her barbed horns and hanging down like dreadlocks from them as she sat with another troll cub, a boy with antlers and a tail mutation like a wolf’s growing from the base of his spine. Argrim’s cub was asleep beside her and she looked up at you.

 

“Mother isn’t coming home is she,” She asked quietly, glancing down at the skull mask and the hatchet in your hands.

 

“…no, child she isn’t.” you said, walking in and she stood up, leaving the sleeping boy beside her as she walked over to you. She held out her hands to take the mask and the hatchet. They were almost too big for her but she managed to hold onto both of them with some effort.

 

“She told me if you came to me after a hunt that her body was feeding the Sea of Trees and her voice had joined the Chorus,” she said, looking down at the mask, “She said it would be a good death….”

 

You knew children took longer to understand the way the world worked, the way your world worked, that a death following the call of the Hunt was an honorable one, and that Bolade should be proud of her mother’s passing… but you also knew that she had just lost her mother. So, you knelt down to pat her on the head and she jolted a little. She was biting her lip and trying to hold the tears back because she knew it was not good to show weakness in front of the Huntress.

 

“You’re very brave Bolade,” you trilled, thumbing her tears away, “Sarabi would be very proud of you. When you get bigger you’ll be able to hear her voice again and she’ll lead you on to great Hunts.”

 

A sniffle and a nod was all she could manage and you stood up, side-eyeing the sleeping boy before you moved to leave.

 

“Huntress,” you were greeted at the door by Argrim, his mask still on and his hands coated in silver blood of the dead god.

 

“Arrrrgrrrim,” you grinned, stepping outside with him, “Your cub is inside if you’re looking for him.”

 

He grunted, his expression unreadable beneath the wolf like mask he wore, “A clown came asking for an audience at the Waystone…”

 

You stiffened, “Which clown,” you growled after a moment.

 

He shifted slightly, the only sign that he was uncomfortable, “Kurloz.”

 

The name evoked several emotions in your core. Cub stealer, tongueless wretch, Grand High bastard, and a myriad of other names foul and wretched that made you shake. “What does he want,” you growled again.

 

“There is an eclipse in two nights,” Argrim responded, his voice echoing through the mask, “I imagine he wants the same thing all of them want.”

 

An ancient pact of a false peace between those who worshiped the gods of mirth and rage and those that followed the call of the Hunt, it was said a thousand years ago that the two tribes warred so fiercely that it was necessary to erect the Waystones to limit the influence of the Call of the Hunt and to push back the Rage of the Carnival’s “Messiahs”.

 

“Where is he?”” you hissed, glaring up at the taller troll.

 

He didn’t speak, only pointed to the base of the forest’s edge. You growled a third time and pushed past him, hurrying along the branches before sliding down the side of the tree. Coming to a stop some feet up from the ground, you jumped off, stalking towards the clearing.

 

He was a scrawny, lanky shit with his mouth sewn shut and naked from the waist up. His skin painted, or tattooed--you couldn’t be sure, to look like bones, his hands were folded behind his back and at his side…

 

Your breath hitched in your throat a little as you approached them.

 

One child every third eclipse, given from each side to offer to their respective causes. The Children of Mirth and Rage, despite their abhorrent ways, added good life to the Sea of Trees, if not becoming strong members of the Hunt themselves if they seemed like they had potential.

 

Whereas the Followers of the Call were given over to the Dark Carnival and often killed outright, given a dishonorable death as cattle or, in some cases, kept as pets by the Children.

 

Such was the case with your first cub.

 

Meulin’s face was painted in a mimicry of a cat in black and white and her eyes were fixed on you as you approached them, not as a child seeing her mother, but as an indifferent stranger. You did not know what they’d done to her, but in the few cases you’d seen her at the Summits at the First Waystone, the girl who’d once called you ‘mother’, who’d showed so much promise, didn’t recognize you at all.

 

She wore a purple sweater like some city dweller and a skirt over polka dotted leggings, her smile is businesslike and cold. “Thank you fur meeting us, Huntress.”

 

You winced, the play on words was something she’d started doing when she had first learned to speak, that Nepeta had picked up on for the brief time the two spent together. It hurt to hear.

 

“What is it you want,” you growled, pointedly looking at the purpleblooded clown beside your cub. You had no doubt that that bitch had sent her along with him to goad you, she was a sadistic witch if ever you’d seen one.

 

Kurloz’s face was kept careful neutral as he crossed his hand in front of him and bowed to you; it was Meulin who spoke but her tone was entirely different, “Mistress of the Hunt, we come bearing greetings from his most holy of motherfucking priests to the righteous Messiahs of Mirth and Rage.”

 

he smell in the air was like rain before a storm, and you stiffened as you realized Meulin’s eyes were glowing purple.He was using those accursed chuckle voodoos on your daughter to make her speak for him.

 

You were digging your claws into your palm to stop yourself from ripping his throat out at this transparent insult to your honor; how dare he, how fucking dare he! When you didn’t respond verbally, Meulin continued, or rather, Kurloz continued through Meulin.

 

“We all up and wish to discuss the upcoming Summit and Exchange between our two most righteous of brother and sisterhoods,” she spread her arms in a gesture that Kurloz mimicked.

 

“Explain. Quickly.” More of this than was necessary and you risked starting a blood war and breaking thousands of years of pact law by butchering the Grand Highblood’s Son  and reclaiming your cub from the Dark Carnival’s Messiahs.

 

Meulin smiled a little wider as she continued, “We only wish to assure you that the most wicked of Holy Mothers has no intention of taking anything of value this year, in fact she is letting you all up and choose who you give us. We are sure the most excellent of Huntresses will make a motherfuckin’ excellent choice to help our family of Children of Mirth and Rage to grow.”

 

Your hackles were still raised but this news was… surprising. There were dozens of rules with this pact, all of them to be followed and observed when the exchanges were made or risk one side using it to steal from one family, or trading weak children deliberately.

 

“…Why?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at Kurloz, and making an effort not to actually look at Meulin.

 

“Because it is the most Whimsical will of the Holy Mother, and it is by her leave that we attempt something different, perhaps all up and shifting the weight of responsibility will help ease the animosity between our two motherfuckin’ of tribes.” The smile that graced Kurloz’s lips made it click what the “holy mother” was really after.

 

You weren’t an idiot, just because you lived in the skull of a frog in a giant tree house village didn’t mean you weren’t aware of tactics like this sort of thing, you were the Huntress for a reason, damn it. She wanted you to be the villain; she wanted to pit you against your tribe by forcing you to choose who was given to the enemy rather than have all the blame on the Dark Carnival for stealing cubs.

 

“And will you be choosing who is given to us?” You asked, eyes still narrowed.

 

“Again it is all up for your decision,” Meulin explained, tilting her head, smiling a serene smile far too pleasant for their topic of choice. “The most wicked of Holy Mothers wants only to have this year’s Summit be without any motherfuckin’ incidents.”

 

You didn’t like this one bit. It was too sudden and too close to the Summit. This smelled all sorts of wrong and underhanded to you. But… your thoughts go to the one cub you know you could give without it being a huge loss to your tribe… no, NO! He was not yours to give this wasn’t the way it was meant to be.

 

“I don’t have to agrrrrree to this,” you growled, “What yourrrr Holy Motherrrr suggests is against the pact.” You’re trembling, that fact that your thoughts to giving away your Second’s son because of how weak he was a death sentence to him, and if Argrim hadn’t left him to die already it was for good reason damn it!

 

“Of course you all up and don’t,” Meulin explained, shifting her arms into an elaborate shrug as Kurloz did the same, “It was only a motherfuckin’ suggestion so that things between our tribes might someday work for some wicked nasty peace. You follow a Rage not so dissimilar to our own Messiah after all, how do you know your Calling isn’t the sick nasty motherfuckin’ hymn of the Dark Carnival?”

 

You took three steps forward, your fangs bared and your hair standing on end as you loomed over the clown. You were insulted. You felt threatened and the mockery of using your cub like a puppet in front of you was making you want to reach out for the Hunt’s Call so you might bathe in this welp’s blood.

 

“Leave.”

 

You were barely restraining yourself. Oh how you wanted to rip him to tiny pieces and bring your cub mercy, or find some way to fix whatever they’d done to her. It hurt; it hurt so much to see her used like this. Thoughts nagged at you. Did she even know what was happening? Was she aware what was being done to her?

 

She suddenly jolted and took a step back from you, moving behind Kurloz with a whimper and you stopped short. With a snarl you turned away from the two of them, stalking back to the tree village. He’d released his control from her at the moment you were your most fearsome to get to you, you knew it. You could feel it. You wanted them all dead. You wanted your tribe’s cubs to be returned to you, or to the Sea of Trees. This was an insult! You… you!

 

Exhaustion hit you like a four-armed owlbear as you reached your quarters again, having moved past Argrim and waving off his unasked question. Tomorrow. You’d tell him tomorrow. This was… you moved to your room, checking on Nepeta in her hammock, still sleeping peacefully. You scooped her up into your arms, holding her close to your chest as you moved to your own hammock, and laying down on the furs to hold your dear child close to your chest so you could feel her heart beating inside of her.

 

You would let no one see your tears, no one would see this side of you, no one would know how much it hurt the Huntress to lose one of her dear cubs, how much it hurt to see Meulin used like that. You had to be the strength that led the tribe. None were permitted to see you at your lowest. You curled yourself around your cub, biting back sobs but unable to stop the stream of tears rolling down your face.

 

What would you do? You wonder, what would your mother have done? What would her mother have done? The Call would demand blood, would demand vengeance and flesh to be torn for this injustice… you knew that, but you also knew that a war with the Dark Carnival would likely devastate your tribe and there was no clear cut chance for victory. Though their voices would join the Chorus, you knew the Call itself would fade if there was no one to hear it.

 

You couldn’t think about that now. You would sleep on it, you would ask Argrim for council come waking hours. It seemed to be the best decision for the moment. You let yourself drift to sleep, the sound of Nepeta purring against you easing your nerves enough to relax. Tomorrow. Everything would be dealt with tomorrow….

 

 

  
  



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